


23 Years, 4 Months, 3 Days

by pertainstothesea



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, M/M, Psychic Abilities, just bros falling in love, the violence is fairly mild but it is hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertainstothesea/pseuds/pertainstothesea
Summary: From my own suggestion: Holster can see into the future, but only one corner of Faber, and only 23 years, 4 months, and 3 days away.





	23 Years, 4 Months, 3 Days

“Bro, why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Holster asked, snapping back to attention, just a slightly guilty look on his face.

“Like you’re That’s So Raven-ing. Your eyes looked focused and unfocused at the same time, which probably shouldn’t be a thing, medically speaking.”

“Okay dude, you’ve only had one bio class. Freshmen don’t actually know doctor stuff yet–” Holster started, trying to distract Ransom. Instead he raised one eyebrow.

“I don’t have to be a doctor to know you’re making weird faces a lot lately. C’mon. What’s up?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Holster said, his airy tone not matching his tense body language. Ransom frowned.

“You didn’t listen to me when I told you not to worry about my finals panicking,” he said quietly. Holster’s mouth fell into a straight line. Ransom just stood there, his face still but his mind racing. If Holster wasn’t telling him about this, it had to be terrible. Worst-case scenarios flipped through his mind like folders being hurled from a third-floor window. His brain leapt to grab the folder labelled DEATH and started overanalyzing each possibility.

“You won’t believe me. You don’t believe in the ghosts and there’s more proof of them than there is of this,” Holster said, interrupting Ransom’s mental image of Holster slowly dying of one of those brain-eating amoebas. His brain tossed the DEATH folder away and grabbed the OH NO folder instead.

“Bro, if you so much as start to say ‘aliens’ I am going to lose it.”

Holster chuckled. “It’s not aliens. I don’t think, at least. So, uh, do you believe in psychic powers?” Ransom was hesitant.

“I believe that some people are really good at cold-reading people and like, coming up with good guesses about dead relatives, but they can’t actually talk to dead people or whatever– Holster, you aren’t scamming people, are you?”

“No no no, not like the talking to dead people psychicness, the predicting the future kind. The real kind. I can see into the future.”

Ransom just stared at him yet again. Then he got up and grabbed his laptop.

“Dude, we’re going to have a talk about this when I’m less pissed at you. This is the dumbest fucking way to try to fuck with me. Just admit you’re stressed or whatever, it doesn’t have to be a joke.” He stuffed the laptop into his backpack and picked up his water bottle. “I’m just gonna go to the library to cool off. Not cool, bro. Super not cool.” He slung the backpack onto his shoulder and pointed at Holster. “What’s even more not cool is making fun of me about the ghosts. Just because they’re not real doesn’t mean they’re not freaky.” Holster jumped up, too.

“I’m not lying! I’m actually psychic! We did that whole blood oath ceremony last month, I told you I wouldn’t lie to you about anything. Please, Ransom, this is like a big fucking deal to me, just hear me out, okay?” Somehow, it didn’t sound like bullshit. Ransom let his bag drop to the ground and sat back on his bunk.

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“You said this is important to you. You wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Now tell me what’s happening.”

 

For as long as Holster could remember, if he zoned out in just the right way, he could see one specific thing: the corner of an ice rink. Sometimes there were people there, wearing red and white hockey gear or sparkly figure skating outfits. Most of the time it was empty, the only noticeable changes being the lights going on and off as the day turned to night. Rogue zambonis floated by occasionally, seemingly at any time of day.

When he turned 18, it finally changed. Instead of the plain red and white paint, the corner now had a date painted on it. Starting on his birthday, it changed every day, being painted over in the morning and reappearing at night. He did the math, and figured out that it was exactly 23 years, 4 months, and 3 days in the future. Slowly, the messages became more intermittent but more personal.

BREAKUPS ARE TOUGH BUT YOU’LL GET THROUGH IT, the wall said the day after his first heartbreak.

GO WITH SAMWELL. TRUST ME, it said when he realized that pro hockey wasn’t the way to go.

I KNOW THEY SUCK BUT YOU HAVE TO BET SOME MONEY ON THE BLACKHAWKS THIS YEAR, it said in 2012. The wall was… helpful this way. He was hesitant at first about using the wall to make money. It was cheating, obviously, but it was the kind of cheating that nobody could regulate. He rationalized that if there weren’t rules against it, there couldn’t be a real problem.

The other factor was the handwriting.

His own handwriting.

The corner didn’t have that much of an impact on his everyday life, to be honest. It was usually when he was having a bad day, or had just lost a game, or when something was wrong. He’d zone out for a minute, and there would be just a little something there. A word of encouragement or a chance to get some extra cash, and it would brighten his day a bit. And then he’d write down exactly what the message had said and when he saw it, so in 23 years and 4 months he’d be able to prevent a paradox. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he messed that up, but it was one thing he didn’t want to test.

If movies had taught him anything, it was that paradoxes were bad.

His first day on the ice at Samwell, something clicked. He physically saw the corner for the first time and the visions just came more into focus. It was like he hadn’t realized he was wearing the wrong glasses prescription this whole time, and a rogue optometrist had skated by and thrown the perfect glasses on his face. He would have spent the whole practice focusing on this change, if the wall didn’t tell him PAY ATTENTION TO RANSOM, NOT THIS. So instead he paid attention to the practice, skating around looking for someone named Ransom until Shitty reassigned his and Ranser’s nicknames.

He didn’t tell Ransom that last part when he was explaining his powers, though. That one might have seemed kind of weird. But it made sense to Holster. He would have hated it if he had been zoned out when he met his best friend. His future self was just looking out for him, making sure he wouldn’t lose this moment. It probably wasn’t supposed to make him pay attention to everything about Ransom. It definitely wasn’t supposed to jumpstart a massive crush on his best friend. The corner wouldn’t do that.

 

Most people would have thought he was a liar, or crazy, or some combination of the two. To be honest, Holster wouldn’t have blamed Ransom. But instead of walking away or shutting Holster down, Ransom wanted to know everything.

Was the handwriting ever different? No.

How did he know to trust it? A) his own handwriting, B) the bets he’d made so far had all paid off handsomely.

How often did it write something? Usually just when he needed it, or it would give random stats for different games. Not for every major game, that would be suspicious, and not all the time, but often enough. He’d usually do things just shy of perfect– a March Madness bracket that was off by two teams, betting that the team that’d win the World Series or the Stanley Cup would only make it to the postseason, that kind of thing.

“Has it ever told you something personal before it happened? Like ‘don’t hook up with her’ or something,” Ransom asked, the first question that threw Holster for a loop. He thought about it for a minute, running through the various consolation messages he assumed his future self was leaving. He drummed his fingers on his desk while he pondered.

“I don’t think so. I guess that seems more like cheating than big events? Like I need to let myself make mistakes and stuff,” he explained. Ransom nodded. He got it, of course. He was the best that way. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.

“Okay bro, not to be morbid, but I need to be morbid for a second if that’s okay with you,” he said. Holster nodded at him to continue. “So like, will you reach a point where the messages stop coming, because 23 years, 4 months, and 3 days from that point, you’ll be dead?”

“Oh shit. I guess so?” he said, shrugging. “But that could be a positive thing, right? Nice to get some warning.”

“You’re less existential about this than I would be,” Ransom admitted.

“I can’t really get freaked out about this stuff, man. Like if I start, when will I stop?”

 

 

It was late in the third period, tied with Yale, and Holster was more exhausted than he let on. The game was absolutely brutal, and he could already feel deep bruises on his ribs, the kind that don’t look too bad until the second day, when they abruptly transform from a light purple to an inky black. He could make it, though. He’d been waiting on the bench for just long enough that he could get through the last shift with Ransom. If the forwards could get one more point, if they didn’t have overtime, if everything went right, he could make it.

He zoned out for a second, idly wondering if his future self would have any tips for funding the next kegster. His blood ran cold with the first glance. 

WE HAVE TO CHANGE SOMETHING THIS TIME.

GNARLY ACCIDENT. SKATE TO RANSOM’S FACE.

KEEP HIM AWAY FROM #59.

“4, 11, on the ice!” Hall called before Holster could even process what was happening.

“Rans, listen to me,” he said desperately. “Avoid 59, okay?”

Ransom was already on the ice. He didn’t hear him.

“Birkholz, focus on what you’re doing and get on the fucking ice,” Hall cut in. He couldn’t explain so he didn’t, and settled for keeping as close an eye as possible on both Ransom and the Yale players. He had almost let his guard down, and was starting to wonder if his future self had gotten the day wrong, when he felt it. He took off towards where it was going to happen. The corner.

 

It’s a strange thing, to change time. Some would argue that it creates a paradox. Others would argue that time would just keep going on, and nobody would notice. What actually happened was that Holster felt like two scenes were happening at the same time.

 

Ransom was falling down, tripping over the fallen Yale player’s leg, face heading for the icenear his feet and time split into two parts–

 

Holster grabbing Ransom by the shoulder, pulling him back upright–

 

_Holster watching helplessly from five feet away, feeling like the world was in slow motion-_

 

He was distracted just as #67 hits his other side, he would have skated it off if he’d seen him coming or if he wasn’t already unbalanced but no, it’s him that’s falling now–

 

_59 is trying to get up but the thing between his foot and the ice is Ransom, and there’s so much blood, it’s too much blood_ -

 

His arms hit the ice first, it’s not that bad, and then #59 flails-

 

_There are referee whistles and screams and shouts but he can only hear his pulse, his ragged breathing, he has to get to Ransom, he has to, he doesn’t know how but he has to- Ransom could be- he can’t think about that._

 

Holster has a broken nose and maybe a mild concussion. There’s a lot of blood but he knows that it’s not as bad as it looks. It’s better than the other scene he could still sort of see, though it was getting more blurry already. 

 

This was better than it was in that other time.

 

 

 

“What the fuck was that?” Ransom demanded, storming into the trainer’s room. Holster’s nose was taped up, and he’d already been lectured by the coaches, the trainers, and Jack. “Bro, I had that handled! I didn’t need you to come in there and get yourself a concussion!”

“I had to,” Holster simply said. He winced as his face moved. “It would’ve been way worse if I’d done nothing. Trust me.”

“Your nose fucking exploded!”

“Better than your face getting cut in half with a skate,” he snapped. Ransom’s brow furrowed. Holster went on, his voice shakier, “I- I saw it? Like two worlds happening at once. The corner told me it was gonna happen, and I could see it happening the way it should have, and, Rans, just trust me. Just trust me. I’m still scared and it didn’t happen.”

Ransom grew quiet. He sat down on the chair in the corner of the room.

“Has the corner ever told you something like that before? Like when Bitty got that concussion? Or when Shitty pulled his ACL?”

“No. That’s why I knew it was serious.” They sat silently, Holster still breathing heavily from the adrenaline and the pain. He closed his eyes, hoping it might make him feel a bit better. The pain meds were starting to kick in when he felt Ransom’s hand holding his. He opened his eyes again.

“So, twenty-three years from now, you’re still thinking of me?” Ransom asked. Holster took a deep breath, and whether it was fear or adrenaline or the weight of Ransom’s hand in his, he decided to be completely honest.

“The corner’s been telling me to remember every moment with you since day one. I think I’m in this for the long haul,” he admitted.

“What does the long haul mean for you?” Ransom asked. He squeezed Holster’s hand before he could reply. “Because I need to be honest with you, bro. I’ve got kind of an embarassingly huge crush on you. If you want to be just best bros, pretend this never happened and I’ll get over it, but if there’s any chance–”

“There’s definitely a chance,” Holster interrupted. They smiled at each other, suddenly shy. Holster broke the tension. “Can I get a raincheck on the first kiss, bro? It’s just that if my face moves any more, I think it’s gonna start bleeding again–”

“Oh my god, I just signed up to have the most injury-prone boyfriend,” Ransom said, but he was still smiling.

 

Seven years later, Ransom brought Holster to Faber. He said it was just a normal date night, but something seemed more special than normal to Holster. They had the whole rink to themselves. A special playlist Ransom made, filled with songs from important times in their lives was playing. They skated for a while, played a half-assed game of one-on-one that ended with Ransom skating five victory laps, and laughed at some of the songs that came up on shuffle.

“ _Anaconda_? Really, dude?” Holster laughed. “How does this fit in with the rest of the romance playlist?”

“Our first Winter Screw,” Ransom answered without hesitation. “You got drunk and nearly passed out because you forgot to breathe while you were trying to rap along to the whole thing.”

“Oh, so it’s an ‘Adam you’re embarassing’ playlist, okay.”

“No, no, no, think about it, bro, I still fell for you after witnessing that so it has to be true love,” Ransom said, laughing. Holster glanced at the corner, 23 years, 4 months, and 3 days in the future. He almost fell over.

Someone was standing there. Holding a sign.

It was a man in his forties. Holster blinked again. He looked like Ransom. Some things were different– he had a beard, he’d put on a few pounds, his clothes were more mature– but a lot was the same. The same cheekbones, the same eyes (with a few more smile lines around them), and most importantly the same smile. His sign said “MARRY ME HOLSTER!”

Holster flashed his focus back to the present.

“Are you proposing to me using my weird psychic powers?” he asked.

“Was I there?” Ransom asked back. He started getting down on one knee on the ice.

“Yes!”

“Dude, let me get the ring out before you accept the proposal.” He pulled a small black box out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open, showing a gold ring inside. “Okay. Will you marry me?”

“Of course!”

“And it isn’t just because you saw me in the future?”

“I would say yes no matter what. I wish I had more controllable psychic powers, though, then I could’ve had a ring ready to go for you,” Holster admitted. “This was a total surprise.”

“I do my best.” Ransom stood up and pulled his fiancé in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I am shitty-check-please-aus on tumblr!
> 
> Big thanks to parrotfish_elliot for their help with teaching me how hockey works enough to write it!
> 
> This is my first time writing Holsom, so I hope you like it!


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